


A Quill A Day

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, god alone knows what else to tag here, poemfic ??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 04:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15380994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: A week in the life of the inhabitants of the Oblong Office, told in a ficlet a day.





	A Quill A Day

**Author's Note:**

> I found a tumblr post which had different pens for different activities [https://spookyboxclub.tumblr.com/post/175076314570/repost-macabregoddess-this-is-the-cutest] and loved the idea of Vetinari having different pens for different days, but of course he would never be so pedantic, so I wrote this instead. As usual, nothing is mine.

**_Monday’s quill awakens early,_ **

The first creeping rays of watery sunlight peered cautiously over Ankh-Morpork, tried to burrow back under the horizon, and were unceremoniously booted out to face the city in all its dubious splendour, thus beginning a speedy journey across the sky in order that they were spared the trial of witnessing the monstrosity below for any longer than strictly necessary.

This was not a sentiment shared by Lord Vetinari, who was standing at the long picture window with his second bracing cup of tea of the day cradled in one hand, with the remains of a candle on his desk, which was already swamped in paperwork.

Behind him, his secretary was collecting the completed documents for distribution, copying or filing.

Wuffles, being less involved in the running of the city, was curled up in his basket, once more asleep after his ignominious weekly awakening.

The city slept for no man, and after many years as its caretaker, the Patrician had come to realise that it made a special effort to exert itself on Mondays; a head start was therefore, if not the key to unlocking the soul of the place, then at least a chisel to take bits off the edges, in the hope that one day, the treasure within might be reached.

He turned back to the Oblong Office and sat down to another ream of missives.

 

**_Tuesday’s quill the best of Burleigh,_ **

An Assassin of indeterminate provenance came hurtling through the tall arched window of the Oblong Office, yodelling merrily, in a manner clearly designed to alarm. Poor form. Never announce your intent. He collapsed to the floor with one foot in the room, a tiny silver arrow poking neatly through his carotid artery and out the other side.

Vetinari looked down at the remains of his quill and raised an eyebrow, grudgingly impressed. “Messrs Burleigh and Stronginthearm were certainly correct in their assertions regarding the utility of this device.” He turned it this way and that, apparently consumed with idle curiosity.

Drumknott, meanwhile, had rung the bell for someone to sweep up the shards of glass now littering the floor of the suddenly much draughtier office, and listened attentively, his head on one side. This was the second window in a month. You would think these people could come up with improved arrangements.

“However,” Vetinari continued, “I rather think we should ban it from wider production, don’t you? There are far too many possibilities inherent in such a weapon.” He set it down neatly; Drumknott returned to his desk to draft the required order.

The Assassin lay crumpled on the floor, barely constituting a hiccup in the smooth running of the city.

 

**_Wednesday’s quill distresses Guilds,_ **

The quill continued at a measured but brisk pace, back and forth across the page. Mr Slant was becoming, to put not too fine a point on it, rather perturbed. Surely Vetinari wouldn’t write down everything he said? Surely he wouldn’t... _quote it back at him verbatim_? The thought was – it was not a thought, it was unthinkable. He ploughed onwards, employing rather more urgency and considerably more Latin in his statement than the occasion strictly demanded. This was most offputting.

“... and in conclusion the promulgation of persons acting _in propria persona_  is, while _de jure_  permissible of course, _de facto_ exceedingly damaging to the Guild and I, ah, respectfully request that such measures are considered _pro tem_ and curtailed _sua sponte ex parte_ the Guild in question.”

“Mm.” said Vetinari, placing a neat full stop at the bottom of the page. “Dr Hopkins, I believe you had issues which you wished to raise?”

Slant blinked, and sat.

The unfortunate creature in question started from its horrified fixation on the quill, launching clumsily into the petition which the Clockmakers’ Guild had spent agonised weeks preparing. The quill began moving once again. The speaker faltered. The other Guild leaders gazed entranced at either the gently moving quill or at the tabletop. They were certain this was foul play, but could not quite pinpoint _why_.

When the meeting ended, and the various eminent personages had filed out in stunned and confused silence, Vetinari leaned back in his chair and smiled down at his notes. They were, word for word, the first ten pages of Twurp’s Peerage.

“A fine idea, Drumknott. Keeping them off-kilter means they are less likely to argue. Or, apparently, speak in anything approximating a coherent manner. And the utility of this method is compounded by the fact that I don’t even have to engage them in conversation! Capital!” He looked up from the page in front of him. “Remind me to give you a pay rise.”

Drumknott looked mildly affronted, as though the suggestion that he did his job for mere reasons of capital was unconscionable.

“Then again,” Vetinari continued, “I’m certain I saw a rather interesting stapler in the Clark and Yellowly catalogue which the proprietors might be persuaded to relinquish to a discerning collector...”

Drumknott’s eyes lit up. Vetinari covered his mouth with his hand and fastidiously neatened the papers in front of him.

 

**_Thursday’s quill a gibbet builds._ **

Lord Vetinari never particularly relished days such as these. It was part and parcel of ruling a city so overflowing with the lowest villains imaginable (and even some more enterprising persons who committed crimes previously _un_ imaginable), but it still felt _strange_ not to be the person actually carrying out the required inhumation. Certainly, a lucky few would discover that angels existed on the Disc after all, and their documents were set neatly to his left, marked with a tidy “X”. He signed off on another warrant, having read the associated papers of crimes committed, and turned to one which had been giving Vimes some considerable trouble for months now. It was notoriously difficult to accurately apprehend a blackmailer within the bounds of existing law. Perhaps that could be modified, he mused.

He glanced across to his secretary, industriously scribbling at his own desk. The man who had been driven to suicide by the blackmailer (whose litany of similar crimes was laid in front of the Patrician) had been about Drumknott’s age, a bright enough lad by all accounts, pleasant and friendly, with no extraordinary skills or intelligence to set him apart from every other such being. It could have been anyone. Anyone at all.

Vetinari’s lip curled and he signed the death warrant with a flourish. There would be no angels for this one.

 

**_Friday’s quill for battle primes,_ **

“... and clerk Felicity I think we will attach to the, aha, attaché for Genua. She does tend to be rather more loquacious when confronted with a blonde.” Something which only the very observant would identify as a smile flashed across Vetinari’s face as he glanced up at his secretary, handing him the drafted list. Drumknott scanned it briefly before adding it to the pile in his arms.

“Please do also have copies of the following made and dispersed among the Guild-trained clerks, as they will be required to cover the enclosed information during the course of the evening.” Another small pile.

“And finally, I have annotated the notes regarding each person’s temperament and inclination where alcohol and other such vices are concerned with my own observations.” A considerably larger pile, which, in deference to the fact that his clerk was carrying half a filing cabinet, was set on the edge of the desk rather than handed to Drumknott. He picked it up anyway and placed it atop the others with nary an eyelid batted.

“I have high hopes for this evening, Drumknott,” he continued to the heavily-laden clerk without a shred of mercy for trials inflicted voluntarily, “It is rare enough that the Palace hosts such gatherings and thus the novelty may serve to loosen tongues.”

“I imagine the, ah, _Guild-trained_ clerks may have a similar effect, my lord,” Drumknott commented dryly. “You appear to have a skill for matchmaking.”

Vetinari smiled down at his desk and pulled the next item towards him.

“Perhaps.”

 

**_Saturday’s quill disturbs Sam Vimes._ **

Samuel Vimes, Commander of the Watch, found himself, as was his wont, up in front of the Patrician on a charge most foul: the weekly report.

He was, however, finding it rather difficult to focus on his customary patch of office wall, and found  himself at intervals of about three seconds drawn irrevocably to the heinous object in Vetinari’s hand. It was a quill. Which he had _not once_ dipped in ink. Were there wizards involved? Was it a plot? Was it dangerous? It was only when the pen ceased its movement, and Vetinari his speech, that he registered just how little (to wit, none) of the conversation he had heard.*

Vetinari experimentally twitched the quill. Vimes almost jumped; his nose twitched a little and he forced his eyes back to the patch of wall behind Vetinari which was their favoured resting place.

Behind him, he was almost certain he heard a shuffle of paper which could, by the most paranoid, be interpreted as a muffled laugh. His spine stiffened imperceptibly, to anyone who wasn’t the two current occupants of the Oblong Office. He narrowed his eyes at the wall.

“It was created, Vimes, by Leonard of Quirm,” said Vetinari, raising an eyebrow which the most paranoid (and indeed correct) would interpret as amused. “He calls it a Quill-Which-Makes-Its-Own-Ink. Very ingenious, I’m sure, but _where_ does the ink go?” He looked down at the page in front of him, and Vimes tried very hard not to grind his teeth.

That was _definitely_ a smile.

And that was _definitely_ a laugh.

Bastards all.

 

*This was a fairly simple feat on his end, as his contribution to most conversations with the Patrician consisted of various inflections of the word “sir”, occasionally accompanied by discreet and measured argument (which, this being Sam Vimes, was about as discreet and measured as a fluorescent Dimwell-made brick – and he knew it).

 

**_Sunday’s quill a working horse, through paperwork as dense as gorse._ **

A foldable table kept for the purpose had been set up next to the Patrician’s desk. It was perilously close to being flattened under the veritable mountains of folders and other documents arranged across it. Occasionally, either Vetinari or Drumknott would leave their desk and transfer a pile from the third desk to their own, but for the majority of the day the scratching of industrious quills floated through the air like a bad case of mice in the skirting.

At intervals, Drumknott would, with some unerring clerkly instinct, rise and admit into the room a laden junior clerk, who would add to the various piles and remove documents which had been completed or signed. Foreign mail, minutes from the Guilds, reports from the hands of spies _concerning_ the Guilds, clackses from within the city and without, trade information, missives from spies across the Disc, reports from the myriad clerks within the Palace concerning issues specific to their area... the stream was constant.

The work was compounded by the fact that the city did not wait while paperwork was read and signed; fresher documents were fed into the routine work, some of them urgent, some of them merely detailing events of which it was prudent to be aware.

It was well past one in the morning by the time the two retired, the remaining documents locked securely away in their cabinet to be dealt with on the morrow. Finally, while the city toiled on endlessly through the night, her lovers slept.

 

**_And the quill which he uses on Octeday is simple and black and prudent and gay._ **

The Teachers’ Guild clock chimed six. Both occupants of the Oblong Office continued writing for another five, six seconds, then set their quills down almost simultaneously.

“I hear there is beef for dinner, Rufus.” Vetinari tidied the few remaining papers on his desk and took them over to his secretary, adding them to the similarly-sized pile there. Far be it from any man to interfere with Rufus Drumknott’s filing system, lest he face grievous misfortune.

“Oh, the Commander’s visiting this evening?” asked Drumknott, his face deceptively bland as he organised the documents, primly ignoring the long dark shape reclining against the wall nearby. It caught him by his free wrist as he left the island that was his desk, pulling him closer and pinning him between a toned chest and a monotone wall. He fought down a smile and pointedly moved the paperwork further round to the side of him, out of harm’s way.

Vetinari fought nothing and smiled quite openly down at him, before pressing a chaste kiss on his cheek and releasing him to his duty. “You know well enough that the Commander is doing nothing of the kind, Rufus, and we shall have none of your cheek,” Vetinari remarked, idly floating out of the office behind his secretary.

“And there I thought you loved my cheek,” Drumknott threw back over his shoulder as he filed the documents where they belonged.

“Hmm,” was the only response – but as it was into his shoulder from a person standing _very_ close behind him, he didn’t consider it cause for concern.

**Author's Note:**

> The Dr Hopkins is actually in the AM City Guide as being the secretary of the clockmakers’ guild, which is very small and therefore might be unlikely to be included in the Guild meetings, but as we share a surname (and as I’m going to start a PhD in September!) I couldn’t resist having them /speaking to Vetinari/... it was a chance too good to miss.  
> As always, I’m patently desperate for comments of any and every description on literally anything I write!! And no, I have literally no self-respect, and so will continue to end my fics thusly. Thank you for reading! :)


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